Where Does the Good Go
by YourOnlyBelle
Summary: A sorta coda to All Hell Breaks Loose Part 2. Not really. Just a snippet taken from Dean’s speech to Sam’s body that created an idea that wouldn’t go away. Sammy really shouldn’t ask questions.


-1_Title: Where Does the Good Go?_

_YourOnlyBelle_

_Characters: Wee!Sam, Wee!Dean, John Winchester_

_Pairings: None_

_Ratings: PG._

_Disclaimer: As usual, I'm just borrowing Eric Kripke's fun toys. These toys really are the best, as they seem to have the tendency to create fan girl moments and sugary treats such as this fic. But I don't own them and I'm putting them back with little damage and no profit made from them._

_Summary: A sorta coda to All Hell Breaks Loose Part 2. Not really. Just a snippet taken from Dean's speech to Sam's body that created an idea that wouldn't go away. Sammy really shouldn't ask questions._

_Author's Note: Granted, there is a sense of "I'm not sure" about this. Probably because it was so difficult to write. And because I'm uber busy getting ready to move to Florida and still need to update Nothing Else Matters. But here this was, and it wouldn't leave until I wrote it out. And as usual, a HUGE thank you to my beta, Tanya! Enjoy and comment, please!_

"_You know when we were little, you couldn't have been more than five, you just started asking questions. How come we didn't have a mom? Why'd we always have to move around? Where'd Dad go? He'd take off for days a time. I remember I begged you to quit asking, Sammy, man you don't wanna know. I just wanted you to be a kid for a little while longer." Dean Winchester, All Hell Breaks Loose Part 2_

Sammy Winchester was three when he learned the word every parent dreads their child learning: why. Put into question form, the word found a way to become the most annoying in the English language. Every word out of his father's and brother's mouth was quickly followed by Sammy's tiny voice asking, "But why?"

Seven year old Dean tried to be patient. He really did. No seven year old had ever had the patience he exuded when it came to his little brother. He told Sammy to brush his teeth, when the three year old asked why, Dean quickly explained that all of his teeth would fall out. Of course, Sammy had then followed it with another why. Dean wasn't sure what to say to that, so he told Sammy to ask Dad. Which was his fallback plan. Ask Dad. Dad knew how to answer Sammy's "whys".

But Dean could usually answer Sammy's questions. They weren't hard questions, they weren't even that bad. Even when Sammy asked why the sky was blue, Dean answered it quickly and efficiently, "Cause it would look funny if it was green, Sammy." Sammy asked why Dean went to school, Dean said, "Cause Dad makes me." Simple questions, simple answers.

Sammy Winchester was four when the questions got harder. Maybe it was because he could form sentences better, but his questions were more complex. But still, they weren't impossible to answer. Eight year old Dean could still be patient and answer them. Sammy asked why the sun went away at night, Dean said something about the moon kicking the sun's butt. Actually, he had said ass but Dad had gotten angry and Dean had had to change it to butt. Sammy asked Dean why he had spots on his nose, Dean said they were angels kisses, because that's what Mom had always said when he was little. Sammy asked why he didn't have angel kisses, and Dean told him it was because he was an annoying little brother. Sammy didn't ask why after that.

Sammy Winchester was five when he started school. Dean held his hand on the first day and walked him to the teacher's classroom in their new town. They had moved just a week earlier, and now Sammy was going to school, a big boy. He still asked questions, and Dean could still answer them. Though, the nine year old was grateful that soon, there would be a teacher answering Sammy's crazy questions. Because Dean really had no idea why stars only came out at night. He had never asked Mom that.

Sammy stopped asking questions for a while. He stopped saying why whenever Dean or Dad told him to do something. Dean decided that even though he hated school, it was good in some ways. Cause Sammy didn't have to ask questions anymore, he knew things. Now Sammy just talked about all the things he knew, and Dean had decided his brother was kind of a geek. He knew way too much.

Sammy Winchester was almost five and a half on the day he came to Dean after school and stared at his brother. And just kept staring at him. He did this when he had either done something wrong or when he thought Daddy was going to be mad at him. Dean looked up from his homework and frowned at his little brother. "Blink, Sammy."

"How come we don't have a mom?"

"What?" Dean frowned, putting down his pencil.

"Why don't we have a mom?" Sammy asked again. "Timmy at school has a mom. Melody has two moms cause her dad got a d'vorce and went and got her 'nother mom. She told me I can have her 'nother mom. Becky wanted to know hows come I don't have a mom and everyone else does. Did we ever have a mom, Dean? Joe says everyone gots a mom. Why don't we have a mom?"

Dean stared at his brother, wondering what kind of crap school let kids talk all day about moms. Didn't they have to learn about the alphabet or something? "Yeah we had a mom," he finally managed to say.

"Yeah?" Sam grinned. "Why isn't she here, Dean?"

"Cause she died," Dean replied honestly. He wasn't sure what else to say. Dad never talked about Mom, and Dean didn't really want to remember. Sometimes, when he went to bed, he felt really hot on his face, like he had when he was four and Dad put Sammy in his arms and told him to take his brother outside. Dad had told him about a very bad thing taking Mom away. Dad told him about all the bad things that were out there. But Sammy didn't know. Sammy wasn't ready to know yet.

"Why'd she die?" Sam frowned. "Didn't she like us?"

"Course she liked us, dork," Dean rolled his eyes, standing up and moving to grab some cookies from the cupboard.

"Then why'd she die?"

Dean really didn't know what to say to that. He didn't know why Mom had died. Dad said it was because the bad thing wanted her to die and she didn't have a choice. Dean had asked Dad what the bad thing was, but Dad didn't answer. "She just did, Sam," Dean growled as he felt tears prick at the corner of his eyes. "Don't ask anymore questions. You hungry?" He turned to his little brother who nodded sullenly, his green eyes looking entirely forlornly at the ground. "I'm starving. Let's get something to eat."

Sammy Winchester was still five and a half when he and Dean came home from school four days later and Dad was packing up the Impala. "We're leaving in an hour," Dad told the boys as he turned from his work. "Pack up your things."

"Why, Dad?" Sam piped up from beside Dean.

"Because we have to go, Sammy," John replied simply and firmly, putting an end to any further conversation, at least for him. For five and a half year old Sammy, there were still questions to answer.

"But why?" Sammy insisted, looking up at Dean as his older brother dragged him into the rented apartment.

"Why what, Sammy?" Dean sighed as he started picking up any toys and crayons that were scattered around the room.

"Why do we have to go?" Sam frowned. "None of my friends leave all the time. And I gots school, Dean."

"We'll get you a new school," Dean shrugged.

"But, Dean, why?" the dark-haired boy whined. "Why do we always move around? Why can't we have a house?"

"Will you stop with the questions, Sammy?" the older boy groaned. "We just have to move. Just stop asking questions."

"No," Sam shook his shaggy head. "No. I wanna know why."

"No you don't, Sammy, okay? You don't wanna know. So don't ask anymore questions or I'll tell Dad you flush your vegetables down the toilet."

"You're mean," the little boy pouted. "You're mean and I hate you."

"Whatever, Sammy," Dean frowned. It was okay that his little brother hated him. Because the alternative was much worse. The alternative was his little brother who was afraid of clowns learning that some of the monsters on TV were actually real. The alternative was Sammy finding out that he had good reason to be afraid of the dark. The alternative was Sammy not being Sammy anymore.

Sammy Winchester was almost six years old when he got sent home from a sleepover because he had "spilled" salt all over the house. When Jeff's mom had asked him why he was spilling salt around the doors and windows, Sam told her he wasn't sure, but he'd ask his daddy when he got home. But Daddy wasn't home when Jeff's mom dropped him off and Dean made up a lie that Dad went out for groceries and he'd be back soon. And then Dean got Sam ready for bed and got up to check all of the salt he had spilled around the apartment. "Dean?" Sam mumbled from under his pillow.

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"What's the salt for?"

"Protection."

"From what?"

Dean sighed as he put the salt down and sat down on Sam's bed, rubbing his brother's back. "Bad stuff, Sammy. Now go to bed."

"What kind of bad stuff?"

"Just…" Dean trailed off. In hindsight, he should have told Sammy then. He should have told his baby brother that there were bad things out there, really bad things that most people couldn't see, or didn't want to see. But Sammy was finally sleeping without a night light and he didn't crawl into Dean's bed anymore. Sammy was still like the kids in his class, in some ways anyway. "Just bad stuff. Bed time, now." But Sammy was already asleep and Dean had, at least for a little longer yet, avoided that question.

Sammy Winchester was "five but six in two days" when he came down with strep throat and Daddy wanted to stay but couldn't. Dean was ten when he sat by his little brother's bed in the cramped hotel room, watching him eat a cherry popsicle that stained his lips a deep red and made the pain go away a little. Dean had been given strict instructions to give his brother the pink medicine that tasted like bubble gum two times a day, and if Sammy got worse, to call Pastor Jim. And then Dad had left, promising he'd call when he could. Dad had been gone for three days, and Sammy was starting to get better, though he still sounded like a frog and his tonsils were still really big.

"Dean?" the little boy croaked.

"Don't talk, Sammy," Dean shook his head, "it's only gonna hurt more."

"Lucky Charms?"

"No," Dean shook his head. "No Lucky Charms. They're mine now, dork."

"Dean," Sammy wailed but stopped when he realized how much his throat still hurt. "Fine. Popsicle?"

"Sure, Sammy," Dean nodded and went to the kitchen to grab another cherry popsicle for his little brother and an orange one for himself. Dad hadn't called yet, but he was sure he'd call soon. He would call and check on Sammy and say he was on his way home. Because three days was a long time to be gone without calling.

"Dean," Sammy frowned, "where'd Daddy go?"

"Work, you know that."

"Nuh uh," the little boy shook his head, the curls still plastered to his forehead from the fever that had only just broken. "Kimmy at school said her daddy comes home every night. Where'd our Daddy go and how come he's gone all the time?"

"Shut up, Sammy," Dean pleaded. "Don't ask, okay? Cause you don't want me to tell you, okay? You go back to sleep."

"'M not tired," Sam mumbled. "Just tell me. Where'd Daddy go? Does he leave cause of Mommy? Doesn't he like us?"

"Course he likes us," the older boy sighed as he turned on cartoons. "But he's busy cause of work."

"What does Dad do?"

"He protects people."

"Like a policeman?"

"Kinda."

"So he catches bad guys?" Sam grinned, his teeth and lips stained red from his popsicles.

"Yeah, Sam," Dean nodded absently. "He catches the bad guys."

Sammy Winchester was six years old when he was woken up by his daddy shaking him and asking him if he was okay. Which was silly cause course he was okay. He kept asking Daddy what was the matter, but Daddy didn't answer. He made them throw everything in the Impala and drive away really fast. When Sammy asked Dean why they were leaving, his ten, almost eleven year old, brother didn't answer. He just stared out the window, tears sparkling in his eyes. Sammy didn't think it was very fair that no one was answering him.

Sammy Winchester was nine years old when he first heard the thing in his closet. There was something there. He knew there was. He told Dean first and Dean told him not to be a wuss. And then he told Dad and Dad got up and handed him a gun, like Dean's. "What's this for, Dad?" he asked.

"Sam," Dad sat him down on the couch and called him Sam instead of Sammy, which meant he was either in trouble or being told something really important, "if that thing comes out of the closet, you shoot it okay? This is the safety, you take it off and pull the trigger and you shoot the thing in your closet."

"But Dean says there isn't anything in my closet," Sam frowned. "Dean says I'm a wuss. And Mrs. Callahan says there's no such thing as bad things in closets."

Dean Winchester was thirteen years old when he found Sam curled in a corner, staring at his closet, a gun aimed at it. And suddenly, Dean knew. He knew because Dad was drinking at three o'clock in the afternoon and because, suddenly, Sammy looked afraid of everything around him. He knew that Sammy wasn't a baby anymore. He knew that Sammy was now Sam.


End file.
